


The Apprentice

by Aly_H



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Character Background, Circle of Magi, Gen, MCD implied, Mage Rebellion, Mages, but not shown, leads up to the Game
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-12
Updated: 2018-06-12
Packaged: 2019-05-21 07:06:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14910680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aly_H/pseuds/Aly_H
Summary: Newly made Enchanter Damion Amell of the Ostwick Circle takes on a young fellow pyromancer, newly arrived to the Circle, as his first apprentice.An apprentice whose actions would one day come to shape Thedas itself.-----This is a stand alone fic - listed as part of the "Blood that Binds" series in order to group it together with the other stories I write about the Trevelyan siblings.





	1. Meeting

**Author's Note:**

> Damion is the eldest of the Amell children in my canon, it's the youngest - Solona Amell - that grows up in the Ferelden Circle.
> 
> The story is mostly told from his perspective except for a few instances. This was originally just going to be that first chapter but, uh, kept going.

The First Enchanter sighed, as she set the documents on the table. The only reason her counterpart wouldn’t push for Tranquility with this one was because the Trevelyan name held weight. A _lot_ of it. The girl’s uncle was the Knight-Commander’s cousin or something of the like. The family was wealthy, influential, and it was well known that Bann Trevelyan continued to dote on even his ‘wayward’ children.

Not that being a mage was what made one _wayward_ but young Lark Trevelyan had difficulties with her power. Unique abilities and presentations of magic were not nearly as uncommon as the Chantry wished to believe. Most mages leaned heavily towards some category or other.

It was just as well that the girl was not under the Madwoman’s watch either. Young pyromancers often had difficulties with control, ones that would have earned them the brand rather than patience.

“Enchanter Amell,” she greeted as the young man entered her office.

Damion Amell was a Kirkwaller who had been moved to Ostwick due to family politics as a child. Which was just as well as he was the Circle’s _other_ resident pyromancer. She’d apprenticed the youth while writing frequently to her old friend Vivienne to complain of his airheaded nature and how few of her robes were left without singes.

He was brilliant though, and had well earned his newly appointed title of Enchanter despite his youth.

From what she had heard of the other Amell siblings it was much the same. The youngest was on the difficult path of becoming a spirit healer. Twin brothers in the Antivan Circle had both made names for themselves as illusionists – performing before the Antivan court despite their youth and lack of Harrowing. Gawain and Tristan would not be powerful mages but as jesters and performers they already had amassed more political pull than any of the others combined. The last of the brothers, Aristide, had found himself in Montsimmard and seemed uninterested in pursuing the heights that his siblings were reaching, though she knew of him from Viv’s mentions that the boy had a far sharper tongue than anyone with so little rattling around in their brain deserved.

Damion Amell was recently returned from Tevinter. (A return that had surprised her, she’d suspected when he approved his request to study with their brethren at the Minrathous Circle for two years that he would refuse to return at the end of it.) With his return the mage had taken the qualifications as an Enchanter and kept out of trouble far better than he had during his time as an apprentice.

“First Enchanter,” he greeted cheerfully, blue eyes flicking about the room, before resting on her. “Lydia mentioned that you wanted to see me.”

“I’m assigning you an apprentice – Lark Trevelyan.”

“The fire-starter, right?” he asked, tilting his head to the side, before he went to take a seat, eyes more thoughtful than anything, “You test her for the other primal elements yet?”

“I have – there were negative reactions towards ice and water magic. The strongest reactions are with fire and spirit magic.”

“Sounds like a proper death mage,” he chuckled. “Sure you don’t want to send her to the Mortalitasi? Nevarra could use some fresh blood, too many Pentaghast’s.”

“Her family wishes her to remain close,” she frowned. “And I do not think the Trevelyan’s would approve of lessons in necromancy, Damion.”

“No, I suppose they wouldn’t,” he sighed. “A shame, I have no talent for it. I think it’d be rather interesting to see. She my neighbor in the matchbox?”

“I wish you wouldn’t call the fire proofed rooms that,” she sighed heavily. “I thought it prudent, and her family has donated a significant sum to insure the girl is afforded more privacy. She _is_ the scion of a noble house.”

“’Scion’,” he murmured, amused by the use of the term. “I’m guessing if I don’t take over Lydia-by-the-Book is going to be assigned?”

“Yes.”

“Then the firebug’s my apprentice,” he grinned cheerfully. “Pyromancer’s ought to stick together.”

A short discussion later about what was expected of him over tea served by one of the Tranquil – Marcus, they’d come to the Circle the same year together, he’d always made fart jokes but was terrified of the Fade, but back then he’d been _Markie_ , not until the brand had he started insisting he be called by Marcus instead – and not even an hour later he stood in front of the door between him and the girl whose future he could very well destroy if he screwed this up.

Faux confidence perfected in the fires of a Tevinter Circle as an outsider or not the idea of having an apprentice – his _first_ – apprentice was nerve wracking.

He hesitated longer, ignoring the curious glance from beneath the helmet of the Templar on guard there.

Letting out the deep breath he knocked on the door, “Lark? I’m coming in,” he called gently before pushing the door open.

The door was made to look like wood on the outside but it was heavier than it looked, metal enchanted against fire plated the inside. Stone walls and floors entirely undecorated made the rest of the cell.

He’d grown up in one of these rooms too after all, he’d known what to expect.

The red haired girl sitting on the straw pallet was in better condition than he remembered himself being when all those years ago the woman who would become First Enchanter had entered his cell. Then again he’d come from Kirkwall, dragged away from his mother’s desperate, bruising grip in the streets of High Town by the Gallows’ Templars and shipped away to save the family from more embarrassment.

Rumor had it though that Lark Trevelyan had the good fortune that the Templar who carried her into the Circle had been her own brother. (He hoped that that did not come to stand as a betrayal in the girl’s memory, family was important, even if he barely remembered his own siblings.)

Her red hair was a tangle of curls in need of a brush, falling into her face, and her eyes were red-rimmed and nose runny from crying. Her clothes were a simple, loose night-gown like thing, meant to be easily replaced if it caught flame. He remembered hating how itchy those garments were.

He wondered if his baby sister – Sol – had grown up to look anything like this girl, though Sol was a few years older than this girl wasn’t she? Just a babe when he’d been taken away.

“Y-you shouldn’t be in here. I’ll hurt you,” she tried to draw herself up straight, to meet his gaze with imperious violet eyes that a noble daughter should have but he could see the tremble. “I make fire’s start.”

“So do I,” he smiled gently, lifting his hand up he let it ignite into flames, careful not to catch the cuff of his jacket. Tevinter’s dramatic fashion had rather caught his fancy while he was in the North, but he’d only been able to bring back so much luggage.

Those purple eyes widened in surprise, “Oh.”

“My name’s Damion,” he smiled a little, “I’m a pyromancer – like you are. I’m going to help you learn how to use your magic, okay?” The fire extinguished as he offered her a friendly smile.

“I’m Lark Trevelyan. It’s nice to meet you, uh…Messere.”


	2. Learning

“Doesn’t this breeze feel nice?” he grinned, spinning a little as he walked down the flat roof. The Templars in the doorway were watching them wondering if they ought to do something about the pyromancers.

The way the air caught his black gold-embroidered coat and made it flare out made him feel like a proper mage. He was, perhaps, as dramatic as Lydia complained about him being.

Lark hurried after him, casting a speculatively raised brow in his direction. In the two years they’d spent working together she had managed to get plenty of control. More than he’d had at twelve, certainly and he’d been in the Circle longer by that point.

Well, thirteen now.

“Why are we up here?”

“You’re still afraid of what you can do,” he explained, stopping in the center of the roof before circling, inspecting a set of circles carved into the stone, making sure weathering hadn’t broken any of them.

She glared a little, but didn’t deny it.

“Now, step into the innermost circle, here,” he pointed to the very center, about two feet in diameter, it made the center of the complex design that spread out to a larger circle, some fifteen feet across.

Sighing she did as told, blinking a little as she did so. “It’s dead.”

“Just that spot, it’s to keep your clothes nice,” he said cheerfully. We’re summoning fire, today. All of it.”

“ _All_?”

“All you can manage. You’re to fill this circle.” He tapped the outer ring with his staff, igniting it with his own power, blue-black flames running through the lines as the protective spell sealed the area off. No one would thank him if his apprentice set the city below on fire – it _was_ a very nice view from up here though.

She was hesitating as she turned to examine the space – filling a space with fire, especially without fuel wasn’t particularly easy. It was why they were up on the roof – plenty of air, but it meant that the flames themselves had to be fed by a mage’s mana.

He moved to lean against the raised edge that encircled the roof, looking down on the walled city below. He could see the Teyrna’s colors flying over her palace. He could pick out which houses belonged to various members of House Trevelyan, none of them the place that Lark had grown up before coming to the Circle.

Bann Trevelyan preferred the country estate – _he prefers the horses to nobles, Mother and Lori run things for him_ – and so that was where his youngest had spent most her life.

He glanced back over to watch the circle fill with fire, rising about a foot high, before flickering out.

“You can do better than that!” he called to his apprentice, before returning to his city-gazing.

Two feet then it sputtered out. She was still hesitating.

“Lark, you wanted to be a Templar right? How come? You don’t have some all-consuming hatred of magic.”

“I wanted to protect people – from demons and bad magic,” she frowned, it wasn’t a topic she _liked_ being brought up. “I can’t do that as a mage?”

“No?” he raised a brow. “In the Dales, eight hundred years ago there were warriors called Fade Hunters. _They_ were mages. In Tevinter it is mages that battle demons and maleficarum, not Templars. The Rivaini Seers make truces with spirits and when peace is not an option it is they, not the Chantry that banish the demons back.”

“…all I’m good for is fire?”

He waved his hand and let the protective circle die, “Come here.”

She walked over the glowing lines to meet him at the edge, looking out over the city.

“Qunari, humans, Darkspawn – all these things have attacked the Marches before, might again. If Tevinter falls it is these lands the Qunari must march across to face Orlais. If Orlais decides it has had enough of prodding poor Ferelden and snapping at its own tail it would march on a Nevarra too bloated with its own politics to muster a proper defense. And Darkspawn…” he shrugged. “There are at _least_ three sleeping dragon gods somewhere beneath our feet. Maker forbid we live to see a fifth Blight but if such a horde rises against this city it is the archers and knights who are best to face them?”

“…I don’t understand.”

“One day mages _will_ be needed, or at least free to choose our own paths. Until then we wait, and prepare. Let’s speak hypothetically and a Blight occurs – what would you want to do?”

“Save people.” An instant answer.

“You’re no healer, you can’t save people from their wounds, your shields are abysmal. Your power shapes towards destruction, not creation. What can a mage like _you_ do?”

Furrowed brows and tensed shoulders.

“The answer’s right there, Lark,” he continued, “You wished to be a protector – protectors needn’t just be a shield. They can be the sword that ends the threat before it can reach its target too. I want to teach you to be that sword so when you choose what battles you wish to fight you are prepared.”

“Why the rings then?”

“How do you expect to stop a cavalry charge with those tiny flames you were making? You can do better than that.”

Lark looked down at the city – at _her_ city – and nodded once, “Okay.”

“Now, just remember – you are a _lord of fire_ and it is _you_ that commands the flames, not the other way around,” he said, walking back over with her so he could reset the protection circle.

“That line is ridiculous…I’m a _lady_.”

“Very right, my apologies,” he grinned – glad to see she’d relaxed more. That was always a good sign – meant that her shyness wouldn’t be getting in the way of the casting this time.

Stepping back a few steps once more he watched as she gathered herself. This time the air on the roof changed – the wind tugged at his back towards the girl as the heating air around her drew it in.

Her eyes were closed – something to work on later – but she was doing it, the flames that manifested did so with a deafening roar and he heard the clatter as the Templar watching them from the other end of the roof dropped his shield in the face of a twenty foot pillar of flame encircling the girl and twisting up into the sky.

Lark let the spell drop, gasping as she hit the end of her mana, trembling and he dispelled his protections to rush forward and catch her before she could tumble over completely.

“Good job, firebug,” he grinned, ruffling her hair. “Let’s get you sat down.”


	3. Student No More

_“The other circles are falling,” Lydia frowned. Their Circle was without a First which left the most senior ranked of the Enchanters holding conference in the First’s office trying to figure out what to do._

_“Perhaps…perhaps we should rebel as well, the vote’s been decided,” Bail chewed on one of his nails. “If we wait too long the Templars might decide to annul just in case like in Rivain.”_

_“…Damion? What do you think we should do?”_

_“Hey, I’m following you, Lydia,” he shook his head. “I’ve been in hot water since my cousin’s lover blew up a Chantry, remember?”_

_“Helpful as always, Amell,” she rolled her eyes._

_“There’s maybe twenty battle-trained mages in this Circle. That’s not enough. If we decide to dissolve and it’s not done peacefully it could turn into a massacre like that-” A snap of his fingers. “My politics aren’t worth getting people killed over.”_

_“So you think we should stay loyal?”_

_“I think that if the Templars can be reasoned with – and you have a good chance of it – that that will be the path of least bloodshed,” he sighed, pulling his hand down his face. “If it doesn’t work…we’ll come to what we have to do then, then.”_

_The recent years had mellowed his and Lydia’s once prickly competition. They would never be friends but they both knew where to draw the line on their politics and how to set aside their personal wishes to take care of the Circle._

_“Andraste guide us,” Lydia murmured, looking ceiling-ward._

He jerked awake in the darkness and groaned, throwing an arm over his face.

Lydia had been murdered before she could convince the Templars that annulment wasn’t necessary. He carefully threw his legs over the side of the bed and made his way up onto the deck.

It was a trading vessel, owned by House Trevelyan. The nervous crew casting sidelong glances at the illegal cargo they were carrying to Amaranthine. Ferelden had offered sanctuary (the Hero’s influence, doubtless, they had once been a Circle mage after all), and it was safer there than in the Marches. And they could meet with some sort of leadership and decide what to do about the rumored truce the Divine had proposed.

A short red head stood at the edge of one of the railings, her eyes cast back towards the marches. Messy red hair cut too short caught in the wind and ruffling around her head.

“Shouldn’t you be sleeping, Firebug?”

Lark glanced at him and shrugged a little, “Bad dreams. This…conclave, you really think it’ll work?”

At twenty five it’d been _years_ since Lark was his apprentice. She was now older than he’d been when he’d started teaching her. And had been a full mage nearly five years.

Nearby his other apprentice, a Dalish-born elf named Nerien was heaving over the side of the rail. He’d yet to face the Harrowing but he doubted the elf needed it to prove himself now.

He’d been lucky that they’d both survived. Most of the other senior enchanters who had lived had lost apprentices to the chaos of the escape, either missing or cut down.

“No. But it might stop the killing long enough _to_ find something.”

She shuddered, looking down into the inky water.

“…” he pat her head, “You did good, Lark. A lot of these people owe you their lives. It doesn’t make the killing easier, but it may make the nightmares seem worth it.”

“… _peace_ will make the nightmares worth it. One that’ll last,” she said grimly. “I’m going to go. The Conclave, I mean. I’m still a mage, and a Trevelyan, maybe I can help.”

He stayed quiet, considering it, remembering the flashes of fire and strength he’d seen in a shy and quiet apprentice whose magic was deemed by most as _out of character_.

War Mage. That was their official designation with the Chantry. Destructive, trained for battle, to be kept tightly leashed and supervised.

_Warrior_ might fit the woman Lark was becoming better for all she wore the robes of a mage and carried a staff not a sword. And Damion couldn’t help wondering if that was a good thing or not.

“Politics is one battlefield I wouldn’t dare enter, but I think you’ll manage.”

“…will you stay with the rebels?”

“For a time. After I think I’ll find somewhere remote to retire. I’ve always fancied I’d make a fantastic hermit. Grow a beard,” he gestured as he spoke, getting a laugh from the younger mage, “I’d look very stern and mysterious.”

“You’d get bored two hours in,” she grinned. “And you know it.”

“Alas, very true,” he laughed, “No - I plan on seeing that you and Nerien are safe on the paths you both choose and then figuring out what to do with myself.”


	4. Farwells

Lark was glad that Damion had changed his mind – the delegation needed someone like him. Even if his blood ties to certain heroes kept being used to derail his attempts at conversation he was still making amiable progress. More so than much of the delegation which was busy glaring at their Templar counterparts.

She’d just escaped one of her second-cousins, a rather intimidating clergywoman who had pinched her cheeks too many times.

“Damion,” she murmured behind his back.

“Hmm?” he glanced back, breaking off his conversation with one of the Orlesian mages that had come with the Divine – Galyan D’Marcall if she had it right. “I’m not sure I’d be much use for this Inquisition non-sense, Galyan. You might try Lark though.”

“Lark?” he turned curious eyes and a friendly smile on her.

“Lark Trevelyan, messere,” she greeted, familiar with the fact that Damion never gave a proper introduction no matter the circumstance. “I was Enchanter Amell’s apprentice when I was younger.”

“I’d be willing to bet everything that Lark will be one of the ones to help end this war,” Damion explained. “She’s also politically neutral, useful for the organization that’s trying to wade between this mess, don’t you think?”

“I’ll have to introduce you _both_ to Cassandra later,” the man grinned. “Say what you will, Damion, but your voice would be useful.” Someone called his name and he sighed, pardoning himself from them to walk over and talk to the nervous looking page in Chantry regalia.

“You look exhausted – family?” Damion mused.

She nodded, “I think I’m going to take a bit of a walk, I’ll be back in time.”

“Don’t get into any trouble, okay?” he grinned. “I’ll see you at the talks.”

“I’ll do my best,” she promised, heading out into one of the empty halls and breathing out a sigh at the silence. Maybe attending such an important event _wasn’t_ a good idea. This was better handled by people who knew what they were doing, even if she was only there to lend the Trevelyan name to the arguments.

She lingered a little to watch a game of diamondback going on between one of the off-duty mercenaries hired as protection, Vashoth mages were the sorts to catch the eye after all, and a dwarf who was probably very likely Carta there to sell lyrium to the Templar attendees before she moved on with her walk.

A Dalish-faced elf glowered at her as she turned a corner and nearly walked into them but she barely skipped to the side to avoid going down in a tangle with the archer before they headed down the hall towards there the diamondback game was.

Once more alone she let out her breath and continued trying to sort her thoughts out and ignore the growing itch of magic.

The Temple of Sacred Ashes was flush with the stuff, she was mostly sure that’s what felt old and ancient threading through the stones and the air she was breathing.

“Someone help me!” a woman’s voice cried out in terror.

She darted instinctually towards the sound, making note of dead guards as she shoved the door open, meaning to help whoever had cried out –

“What’s going on here?”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! ^^ I hope you enjoyed.
> 
> Comments & kudos are always appreciated.


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